Saturday, March 7, 2015

Grandfather

I don't remember much about my
grandfather. He smoked a pipe. He rapped his knuckles on a table in percussive
and sequential ways which seemed magical to me. He pulled a quarter from behind
my ear.

He had a little garden with a shed.
I remember radishes and cucumbers. One time I saw him weaving his way home from
drinking at a local bar and falling to the pavement. One year later, he had a
stroke and died.

Behind his house in the woods
flowed the Spicket River. I was sure a band of Indians encamped there on their
way from the White Mountains to the sea. Later I was told he had an Indian
guide which talked to him in spells.

I've hiked the high words of India
and all their nonduality of That. I've even asked some questions of the I Ching
lately. The fruit of light is always hanging from the tree. The wilderness of
wisdom talked to him. It also talks to me.